4am & I are familiar friends. Just like I wore out 3, the novelty of 4 is wearing thin. 4am is that chilling quiet when the drunks have passed out & the early birds haven’t stirred quite yet but I can force myself to shut my eyes with the reassurance of a three hour nap. Guess I got too comfortable.
Hello 5am. It’s been awhile. Maybe I’ll just lay here & daydream until the sun comes up or until my alarm goes off.
I’ll make my reveries my reality.
He shifted his gaze into the mirror—drawn in not by his own face, but by what the looking glass might say. He stared deep within the grass-green globes of his own face, waiting for another dark presence to sprout. He saw nothing, and out of a sense of nervousness, he glanced again at the ticking guardian of his life. He’d been staring for ten minutes, and hadn’t even noticed.
“Well then, isn’t that something else.”
Clear as day, the voice shook his ears—a strange voice, seemingly all too familiar to him. He quickly looked again into the mirror, expecting to see the likes of the monster who had stirred. Yet there was nothing. Only his own face, with the green eyes and dark circles underneath. Only this time, as he looked intently into the corridors of his mirror, he did not recognize the face he knew to be his. It looked out of place, like it was only a memory—foggy and fading. It….was terrifying. He almost wanted to scream, and he truly could not understand why.
He decided it was best to leave; he no longer felt it was a good idea to look for the monster—to search for the source of his terror, to find the demon in the corner of his eye. Bed was something that he hadn’t known in four days. He hoped that maybe his imaginary monsters would let him sleep tonight. Through the fear, through the panic. He turned off the lights, slipped into bed, and held his blankets close—like they were his cross against the undead. His eyes were closed—and he finally was on the verge of peace.
“You’ll figure it out someday! You’ll figure US out,” the man shrieked, and wide eyed; that same man that lied in bed. And he watched his new day of torture arrive.
First, I’ll admit that it hasn’t been all bad.
You’ve introduced me to a lot of good music. I’m pretty sure that if it wasn’t for you, my auditory tastes wouldn’t be half as vast or rich. You’ve spared me from relationships with people who were far too stable to get me. The second you started sleeping on the couch, I abandoned them to vanish between the cushions… or they were already rushing to disappear out the door. You’ve saved me from relationships with people who were far too self-absorbed to care about me. They didn’t even notice that you were sleeping in the bed, between us, all those nights.
During the tedious days, I can feel you waiting for the curtain to drop so you can sneak me out the back door. Through the restless nights, I can feel you watching over me in the midst of the power surges and blackouts.
I realize that I’ve never said thank you for that. So, thank you…
But now it’s about time for you to pack up your shit. Take all of the albums… and the spare change… and the kinky threesome Polaroid pictures… and get the fuck out. Leave me alone with my boring day to day routine and fluctuating electric nights.
And if you’re the only one who’s ever going to understand me… I’m pretty sure I’d prefer to be lonely than understood.
Words said and written by anyone willing to send them are never worthless, pointless, or meaningless. They’re all just building blocks to who we are, so that is what this is for. I felt like building something again. I’ve been writing poetry like there’s no tomorrow on a few little notepads for the last hour or so. Sitting down, trying to relax, but finding that my mind is tearing at my body for reasons I can’t find in my baffling little brain, and it’s unsettling—but enlightening. I seemed to gravitate to history, and to the past, and to dwelling on the things I want—and what I wanted then. I can’t even think of how I was before, and how blind we all are before we start opening our eyes, but then again I’ve been realizing that I don’t really know when we truly start, or how we start, that lifelong process. Music helps, learning what feeling is is an assistance, but I don’t remember when or how I opened my eyes and saw the world through something more than my selfishness and idiocy. Sometimes I don’t think I ever did, but I don’t think we can ever really know. That just seems to be how this stupid life goes. It’s beautiful, though. This whole thing we go through. Loneliness, love, compassion, hate, anger, and everything in between. It’s a mess, but we make so much out of it—if we just choose to do so. Choices, my friends. Choices—the bane and blessing of existence. Does anyone know exactly who they want to be? Does anyone know where each branch of the open road will take us?
“Alice, Alice, Alice, Aliiice! You’re hare and hatter are here! Please note that we’re malnourished but contented, be’cause our tea is never too hot - nor is it ever too cold! We’re here, but not there, and couldn’t possibly be anywhere where we couldn’t keep a well kept secret from being heard, since that would be quite queer. Alice, you’re hatter and hare have come back at last, up stairs, through ally ways, and past hundreds of children’s tears! We saw a grown man cry on the way, haha! He cried and cried, all over some poor child’s body, haha! But we made it, Alice, we the hatter, the hare, and I! We made it safe and sound to the white kingdom, with padded white pillows and cloth all around, and a special suit to keep our arms from swinging and flopping - and to keep us from hand-standing upside down. Alice, can’t you hear? Have you drank from the vial, cause you’re just so small? Have you come ill or’ve been stricken, you’re skin seems so cold. Alice, haha, I see. You’ve become a bit more of a doll than you used to be. Ha, that’s so funny. Let’s just sit here and tell stories until the Queen’s servants come to feed us dinny! Yes, let’s tell stories; I’ve one for you. There was a boy who wore a silly hat, and because of that, I thought he might want to learn to fly! I believe he could do it, and so the hatter and I made a bet with the hare! We were going to teach him how to fly. And we did! But, haha, we forgot to teach him how to land. Sad, sad, we all lost the bet, and so we made the cash fly far, far away, so no one could win it back.”
George Vangrove - Psychiatric Patient #122, early comments and condition.
Prior Status - Convicted felon of the murder of 12 year old, Thomas Jones.
You tried to cut loose your heart by spilling ink over what you had beating in your chest—red and black doubled over like a violent spill way—and sending it out with a one way stamp to the New York Zoo. It told a beautiful story to the caretakers there, and the lions then made short work of the precious flesh—a muscle that still was desperately trying to keep beating. You moved on, you forgot, and then continued writing on your paper white skin, and occasionally the wallpaper and posters you found scattered across your eyes—like street trash, or like the wild grass that fills the countryside. You splashed dark color day and night, spelling out stories and fears in both the sunshine, and just within reach of the bright moonlight. You had no fear then. You hadn’t a care. You had already lost your heart—you had already written your goodbyes on the old, bloody, metronome. What’s left of you is now giving courage to a symbol of just that. The lion thanks you for giving all you had. You gave your whole heart, and that’s just that. But for what? You gave your very heart away for a story to be told. Red and black, played back and forth as your words were formed, and now your story is forever ingrained in the belly of a great beast. You let the best of you grant life to what the worst of us are like.
“$482,153.28 is how much in debt I am. So… what the fuck am I going to do about that!” Donald was just sitting in his room, with a mirror right across from his probably flea-filled cot, talking about his issues—and cursing himself out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuck!” Yeah, that helps, Donny. Just keep up that bright sparkling inkling toward optimism, you happy fiend, you. If you didn’t get that, then you might want to stop reading. That there, that little reference to how jubilant our sad friend Donald is at this time about being nearly 500 grand down the hole, that is what people sometimes call sarcasm. And then it’s sometimes referred to as fucking with people. So, if you’re that kind of sick and twisted piece of shit that lingers on the possibility of fucking with deranged narrators in some sort of imaginary back ally, then let’s continue with the story; if you’re not, well, then you should believe me when I say it isn’t anything personal—I try not to fuck myself either.
Now, as for Donny here, since we’ve last spoken he’s now stopped shouting out obscenities and has decided to entertain some ideas on how he could end his life. To say he’s not very imaginative would be an understatement, and to say he—somehow—could convince himself to pull off a hanging, or even a respectable bullet to the face, would make me a liar. Let’s see, what’s going on in little Donald’s head: “You know, I could just jump out of this place—just dive out my window! Yeah, that’s it; jump out the window. It’s a story—maybe—so it should kill me, right? Would it kill me?” “….” So in essence, he sucks at this kind of convoluted grabbing-death-by-the-ball’s stuff. This undeniable fucking shit circumstance that he himself has gotten himself into, screwing him over. That’s not only his problem, though.
He’s that kind of guy that just does things. He looks at something and knows he could probably make a pretty penny out of some quick deal here and there. It’s kinda funny, I think. How he could start collecting all of those supposed pretty pennies he should have rolling around on his sad excuse of an apartment floor, and maybe fix his dilemma a bit. Or at least buy himself a nice .22 cal, and a bullet to fit. It’d save a lot of people a lot of trouble. Now, to get back on subject, Donald here—the guy still thinking how little pain tolerance he has—has been getting more and more people involved in his quick fix stunts, and well, some of them aren’t too happy that he didn’t provide. I, personally, think it’s partly their fault—those half-hidden, shady, bigwigs, who just look for someone to do something for them. But, that’s neither here nor there—and it’s definitely no longer there.
Oh, look at Donny now, scoping out his lobby floor below. A part of me thinks he even might be able to pull that off; just a short dive to take his sorry life from him and make some poor sap traumatized—and another sorry sack of filth have to clean his STD ridden blood off the floor. I guess that’s life. For me, though, a part of life is a paycheck, and paychecks are all about taking a little of your own life away, one day or night shift at a time. Donald won’t have to think much about that mediocre shit for much longer, if he ever did at all. Looky here, he’s chosen to be a scaredy-cat and cling to his apartment window’s paneling. To be honest, I’m really surprised he got himself to open the window and check the fall—got to give him props for becoming a real man; his ball’s dropping; and getting some self-dignity, all at the same time, if just for a brief moment. With any thought of him making this easier on everyone out of the way, I guess he’ll be taking someone else’s expensive lead peg instead.
Well, at this point Donald there, with his sweaty shorts and eyebrows—hoping to make it on some obscure train out of town—is probably going to get a new pair of stylish foot wear very soon. If you don’t get that, well, then I’m really sorry that you made it this far in the first place. I hope it was a good enough cluster-fuck for ya. I just don’t recommend bringing along any of Donald’s friends. One, you’ll want to get yourself checked out later, and two, you’d probably be getting some new shoes too. I’d know about these sorts of things. Life to me is a paycheck along with every kind of shift, and with every shift comes a new shoe fitting. And some obnoxious plead after, to quote our friend Donny, “No, stop! Please, I’ve got the money now—it’s in!” That’s just life—a bunch of groveling little fucks.
Echoes, echoes, echoes bouncing off my skull as I scribble helplessly on the walls with all the things I’d never say.
Dreaming, always dreaming of fantasies and things that seems so close but painfully far away.
Wanting, needing, craving the shattered perfection of you in every little thing you do that takes my breath away.
Longing, yearning, pining for just one tender kiss to taste the flavor of bliss that lies upon your pouted lips.
Echoes, echoes, echoes bouncing off my skull as I scribble helplessly on the walls with all the things I’d never say.
I said hi, awkwardly, to that one weird blessing that keeps following me everywhere recently. It reacted like I wasn’t even there, a scowl clearly shown over what I guess was a face. The ugly little bugger couldn’t have been more annoyed, it looked like. What was its problem? Was it because I didn’t deserve it; was it because it had to contend and squish between all the other blessings that came to call my head and shoulder home from time to time—I mean, what was the issue? I looked at it for one long while, while I waited to take my lovely lady out, and as she came out toward my car, I could see its eyes sink from anger to sadness, just as mine started to shine; its eyes stretching out into distances that couldn’t even be imagined to be there, and my own just keeping on my love as she walked slowly over. I got it then—I understood. Love’s a blessing that comes at a price, I guess. For some, it’s like that little phantom figure, sitting dismal in the back seat; the feeling of loss, and not being loved filling up its presence—though, to be fair, I do love the little guy. I bet that that phantasmal visage, droopy eyed, and solemn in the back seat, wouldn’t feel so bad if it knew what the other end of the price we pay felt like; the little catch that comes with giving a heart to someone else. Though I’ve got myself a love, it hurts like hell sometimes when she’s not around. It’s a double-edged sword, for everyone involved—we’ve all just got to learn how to swing it.